


Eric Bittle and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

by sc010f



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Fluff, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 22:32:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15716421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sc010f/pseuds/sc010f
Summary: Bitty has an awful day and discovers Kent kind of has his act together. Shitty is Switzerland.





	Eric Bittle and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place a few years in the future. Bitty and Jack have broken up.

Bitty went to bed with the tube of hair gel beside him and now it’s all over and, oh, god, _in_ his laptop.

He slaps his alarm twice before Shitty lets himself into his room with the airhorn because he’s going to be late for his flight if he doesn’t get the fuck up right now. They’re going to get another complaint from his landlord about noise and probably get evicted.

The Danish he gets at the Logan Airport Starbucks is cold, and the latte is some weird crème Brule flavor that tastes like ass. It wasn’t what he’d ordered.

Because of the hair gel incident earlier in the morning, his person and his laptop get searched with extra diligence at security, and now the _e, s, t_ , and _r_ keys stick.

When he manages to scoot onto the aircraft (last call, boarding doors are closing – the gate agent gives him a nasty look as he sprints down the jetway), he realizes he has a middle seat. He hates the middle seat. The couple that he separated don’t want to switch because neither of them want the middle seat. They have tuna sandwiches and barbecue ranch flavored potato chips in their carry on and drink _a lot_ of airline tequila. Bitty is pretty sure he’s going to be airsick ad they haven’t even taxied away from the gate yet.

The plane is seventeenth in line for takeoff.

When they finally get into the air, the air vent over his seat doesn’t work, the battery on his phone is dying, and he can’t find his headphones. The ten-year-old behind him is kicking his seat. Bitty wonders why the hell someone would take a ten-year-old boy to Vegas. Maybe the family has a connecting flight, like he does. They’re probably going to Seattle, too. Which means they’re going to be on his next flight. Which, Bitty looks at his phone, they’re probably going to miss.

When the aircraft finally makes it into Vegas (three loops in a holding pattern because, why not), the pilot slams the plane down onto the runway and the damn thing _bounces_. Bitty gets tomato juice on his white shirt because the couple he’s between switched to Bloody Marys somewhere over the Mississippi river.

When they reach the gate after what feels like an hour of taxiing, the pilot turns off everything, including the air conditioning. Bitty manages to get clocked in the head twice by people pulling frankly obscenely large carry-on bags out of the overhead bins.

When he finally makes it out of the aircraft, he realizes that even if he was, to quote Shitty, “a speedy little beautiful fucker” on the ice, there’s no way he can sprint to the other side of McCarran to make his connecting flight to SEA-TAC. He tries anyway and arrives in time to watch the flight taxi away from the gate.  
The gate agent has already shut down his computer and tells him to go to the customer service desk which is, naturally, back on the other side of the airport, where he had landed.

His laptop bag is making his shoulder hurt and he’s pretty sure he’s getting a blister on his right heel. Bitty thinks he’s entitled to complain, just a little bit, and wonders if there’s any way he can get on a flight to Australia.

The customer service agent is being chewed out by the mom of the ten-year-old who was kicking Bitty’s seat all the way from Logan. The dad and the kid are at the slot machine.

When it’s finally his turn, the customer service agent glares at him and says, “you’ll have to wait for tomorrow, everything’s been booked up.”

“Can I at least get a hotel voucher?” Bitty asks, trying to smile.

“Do you have your boarding pass?”

Bitty holds up his phone with the electronic boarding pass, and it’s dead.

“Never mind,” the agent says, rolling her eyes. “Do you have your I.D.?”

Bitty clutches at his pockets. Then in his laptop bag. Then his pockets again. And realizes that his wallet, keys, and belt are sitting in a plastic tray at the security checkpoint at Logan Airport.

“If I can charge my phone, I can show you the boarding pass…,” he starts, but the agent is already looking over his shoulder at the next person behind him. Now Bitty can’t even hop on a flight to Australia.

It turns out his phone charger’s not in his laptop case, either.

Bitty tries slow, deep, breaths, and when that fails, buries his head in his hands and screams to himself as quietly as he can.

The mom with three kids moves her hoard to the other side of the gate area when he asks to borrow her charger.

The flashing lights, the clamor of slot machines, the chatter of people, and the ever-repeating reminders never to leave luggage unattended is making Bitty’s head hurt. He needs some air.

On the escalator down to ground transportation, he drops his phone just right so that everything shatters and the SIM card gets eaten by the moving stairs.

Even if there were still payphones, Bitty’s not sure he even knows how to call collect, much less what anybody’s phone number actually is because what’s the point when you have a contacts list?

Which is when Bitty realizes that he can’t actually _get back in_ to the airport because he has no boarding pass and no I.D. And he doesn’t know anybody in Las Vegas.

Well, that’s not exactly true. He knows one person in Las Vegas but it will be a cold day in hell before Eric Richard Bittle reaches out to _him_.

But he’s stuck, and he can’t stay in the airport.

And he’s starving because all he’s been able to eat was that terrible Danish this morning.

And how is he going to even _contact_ Kent the Very Large Douchebag Parson? He doesn’t even know Jack’s number, no. Bad thought. Thinking about Jack means crying and Eric Richard Bittle is a college graduate with a budding career in the restaurant industry and he is _not_ going to cry in the middle of McCarran airport baggage claim. When he gets out of this, Bitty is definitely moving to Australia.

Bitty realizes he’s been staring at a map of downtown Vegas for about five minutes. The stadium is right next door to the New York-New York Hotel and Casino. The Aces have a game tonight: the guys in the lost-luggage office are watching it. The New York-New York runs a free shuttle to and from the airport.

Maybe…

But without money for a ticket, how is he going to get in? And what’s he going to say? “Hi, we’re ex-boyfriends in law, sort of, because the boy we love can’t seem to get his emotional shit together for anything except hockey and won’t let the people in his life commit to him and can I stay at your place for a while because I’m literally stuck in this hell-hole of a city until I can find a way to either get back to Providence or Seattle where I’m supposed to have a job lined up but now probably won’t because I’m not going to make it there for the interview? And are koalas really as terrible as everyone says they are because I’m thinking of moving to Australia?”

Well, ok, the first parts of that might work. As far as Bitty knows, Kent Parson doesn’t have a personal grudge against him, _per se_. To the extent that Parson knows he exists, Bitty’s just that college kid that goaded Jack into coming out in some stupid stunt when the Falconers won the Cup. It’s not like Bitty broke the two of them up or anything. And from the looks of his Instagram, Parson might also be okay with the question about the koalas, too.

Wrapping his hands firmly around his laptop case, Bitty boards the bus to the New York-New York. He’s getting a headache just thinking about the name.

* * *

He trips as he gets off the shuttle. He lands on his hands and knees and there go his good pants. A cluster of clearly already drunk, and for goodness sake it’s only 9:30pm, girls shriek with laughter but one of them detaches from the group to try and help him up.

Bitty ends up with something toxic and green splashed over his shirt – it matches the tomato juice stain from earlier. He sighs. No Tide pen is going to get those out. He _knew_ he should have packed a change of clothes.

The plan had been simple, fly from Boston to Seattle, thanks to the time difference, land in Seattle in time for his interview with the marketing director at the Motif Hotel and Restaurant in the early evening, watch the dinner shift, fall into a bed at the hotel for a few hours, wake up, brush his teeth, and hop on the first flight back to Boston to close at the coffee shop.

Now, he’s sitting on the ground in a parking garage in Las Vegas, resting against the back of a canary yellow car that probably costs more than his parents’ _house_ waiting for its owner to come out here so he can beg for a night’s stay that isn’t in an airport or some alley. Bitty bets this kind of shit doesn’t happen in Australia.

He must drift off a little, because the next thing he knows he hears a surprised laugh/grunt and Kent Parson is staring down at him in the dingy light.

“What the fuck, aren’t you that kid…?” Parson asks. He doesn’t finish the question, just frowns at Bitty.

Bitty scrambles to his feet, wincing as his knee, jarred from his tumble off the shuttle, twists.

“Yeah, yes, goodness, hi.” Bitty’s words come out in a rush. He sticks out his hand. “I’m Eric Bittle, we met… a few years ago, you came to see Jack… at Samwell, and, well, we weren’t properly introduced but we have a selfie and I follow your twitter and Instagram, obviously and…” He trails off because Parson’s not taking his hand. Rude.

“Yeah, no, I remember, and no offense kid, but I’m not shaking that.”

Bitty looks down at his hand which, he notices now, of course, is scraped raw from the fall, and has the added benefit of a huge smear of grease from the garage floor.

“Yes, well… I…,” Bitty starts, and it’s just too much as tears start to well up and roll down his cheeks. “I…” he starts again, but it comes out as a hiccupping sob.

“What the fuck… oh, shit, no, don’t cry… what…” Parson’s saying. “Were you mugged or something? Does Ja- does _he_ know you’re here? Why are you here? No, no, no, stop crying look, here… let me…”  
Through a haze of tears and humiliation, Bitty watches Parson drop his bag and clutch at the door handle of his obnoxious car which chirps twice.

“Come on… get in, shit… what did you sit in? Why do you smell like a sorority party?” Parson’s questions keep tumbling out of his mouth.

The tiny part of Bitty’s brain that isn’t in the midst of its humiliating meltdown in front of Kent fucking Parson wonders how Kent _fucking_ Parson knows what a sorority party smells like. Bitty is certain there’s snot running down his chin now.

“Aw, fuck, there’s grease all down the back of your shirt, too,” Parson says. “Do you, like, need to go to the emergency room?”

Bitty can’t help it, he just sobs harder. This cannot possibly get any worse.

“I guess that’s a no,” Parson says. “Okay, you know what, fuck the upholstery, it’s fine… get in, come on.”

“Where…” Bitty sobs.

“My place, I guess,” Parson says. “I mean, unless you do need to go to the hospital after drinking…” he leans in and sniffs. “Is that appletini and… tomato juice?”

That shocks Bitty out of his hysteria for a minute. “It is _not_!” he exclaims drawing himself up to his full height and glaring at Parson. “I would _never_!”

Parson starts to laugh and ushers Bitty around to the passenger’s side of the car, helping him in as Bitty’s moment of indignant clarity fades and the sobbing starts again.

“Okay, okay,” Parson says. “You clearly have more taste than I do. Do you want to go to my place? I mean, or did you just want to cry in my car for a while, because, dude, this is kind of, I don’t know… weird and inappropriate, I guess, but I really, _really_ want to go home.

Bitty hiccups again and sniffs, it’s an ugly, rattling sound.

“No,” he says. “Take me home… uh, or to your place.”

* * *

Kent Parson drives like a maniac. Bitty wonders which side of the road they drive on in Australia, and maybe he’s already there and the glitz of Las Vegas is just an exhaustion induced hallucination.

It’s fortunate that he hasn’t had anything to eat except that terrible Danish, or else he would throw up. Still, his stomach is roiling, and he tries to say something to Parson, but Parson ignores him.

Fifteen agonizing minutes later, Parson sweeps into a parking spot in another garage like he’s Vin Diesel and Bitty’s stomach actually does lurch, and he dry heaves between his legs.

“Holy shit,” Parson says. “Ok, let’s get you out of here. It’s not the first time someone’s ralphed in this car, but…” He sprints around and opens the passenger door, but the tears have started again and Bitty curls around himself, head on his knees.

“Aw, dude, come on,” Parson mutters and reaches around Bitty to unbuckle him. “Whatever happened, it’s okay. Let’s go upstairs, get you some water.” He pulls Bitty up, out of the car (and of course Bitty hits his head on the door frame), and half carries, half frog-marches him to the elevator bank.

Bitty sniffs again. When is he going to be out of tears, he wonders.

Leaning against Parson in the elevator is comforting. His shirt smells clean, he’s clearly showered after the game, and for the first time in a while ~~ever~~ , Bitty isn’t leaning against a boy who makes him feel tiny. Not that he minds it when Shitty snuggles him, or when Ja- certain people used to wrap themselves around him, but every once in a while, Bitty would like not to be smothered when he’s cuddling, thank you very much, and apparently the person who can provide that is Kent Parson.

Kent Parson who is stroking the back of his neck.

“What are you doing?” Bitty mutters into Parson’s shoulder.

“Huh, oh. Uh… Kit calms down when I stroke her. You… uh, seemed like you could use some… calming down,” Parson says as the elevator slides to a halt and the doors slide open. “Anyway, c’mon, we’re here.”

The only reason why Bitty knows Kit is because he follows Parson’s Instagram. It started as a hate-following thing: keeping an eye on what that douche who broke Jack’s heart was up to, and turned into, well, not an obsession so much as an… interest. It turns out that Kit is unbelievably huger and fluffier in reality and also hell bent on killing both him and Parson as she winds herself around both their legs in an obvious attempt to trip them.

“I just need a shower,” Bitty mumbles. “And maybe, oh, I don’t know. Why are you being so _nice_?”

“What? Do you think I’m a total asshole? Jesus, just… get in the shower. I’m starving. You shower, I’ll get food for us, ok? Let’s start there.” Parson steers him to the bathroom and shoves a clean towel at him and leaves the room, pulling the door firmly shut behind him.

The shower is ridiculous: clean and okay, Bitty’s a sanitary person, and so is Shitty, but when two guys live in an ancient building and share a bathroom, stuff _grows_ in your shower despite your best efforts. Plus, Parson’s shower is huge, and if Bitty can barely turn around in his shower at home, well… if Shitty could see this, he’d never leave.

The shower is the first good thing that’s happened to Bitty all day, until he realizes that he can’t just put his clothes back on.

“Uh… Kent?” Bitty wraps a towel around himself and pokes his head out of the bathroom door. “Kent?”

Kit is the only one who responds, padding up the hallway to sniff at Bitty’s toes and swat at his ankle.

“Kent! Parson! Your cat is trying to kill me!” Bitty shrieks. He’ll deny it later, of course, and anyway, nobody’s going to believe this whole day actually happened to him. Bitty’s not sure it’s all that real, himself.

There’s a crash from down the hall and Kit dashes off in the opposite direction. Shrugging, because, really, this can’t get any worse, right? Bitty sets out to investigate. 

“Shit! Fuck! Stop!” Parson shouts as Bitty enters the kitchen area and immediately steps on the glass that Parson’s dropped on the floor.

That’s it. The minute he can find some pants, Bitty’s moving to Australia.

* * *

“For shit’s sake, hold still!” Parson grumbles at him. “Unless you want to spend the rest of the night in the Emergency Room.”

Bitty is squished into Parson’s (stupidly comfortable) couch, trying to maintain his dignity, or at least the towel, while Parson swears and cleans out his foot. No, dignity went out the window when Parson swooped in and carried Bitty bridal style over to the couch. Bitty puts his head back and clutches his towel and prays for deliverance.

What he gets is the sting of an alcohol wipe and a warm hand around his heel while Parson bandages his foot.

“There,” Parson says, rocking to his feet. “All the glass is out, thank fuck you didn’t step on too much and you didn’t bleed a lot over my couch.”

“Thanks,” Bitty manages. He’s just so tired. He wants to sleep, and maybe wake up in Australia.

“Eat something.” Parson shoves a plate of stir fry at him. “You wouldn’t be so pasty if you ate more protein.”

Ouch.

Bitty grabs for the plate and the fork and starts shoveling food into his mouth before he remembers his manners.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. “For… everything.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Parson replies, settling down next to him, his own plate of stir-fry balanced on the arm of the couch. “I pick up strays all the time.”

Bitty manages a smile. “Is that how you got Kit?”

“Yep,” says Parson around a mouthful.

“Well, she’s adorable,” Bitty says. And he isn’t lying, normally he’s indifferent to cats, but at the moment, Kit is washing between her toes and it’s the cutest damn thing he’s ever seen. Maybe he’s just exhausted, so tired he’s being seduced by a cat.

Parson looks at him for a beat too long.

“Aw, Parson,” Bitty says. “Were you going to say I’m cute, too?”

Parson smirks at him. “You know your blush goes all the way down your chest, right?” he asks.

Bitty throws a piece of pepper at him. “Shut up,” he growls.

“Doesn’t stop it being true,” Parson says, popping the it into his mouth. “You want to watch tv or something? Netflix and chill?” He’s leering now.

“Oh, god, nobody’s said that for, like, three years, now,” Bitty complains. “And stop trying to flirt with me. It’s weird. And inappropriate.”

Parson’s smirk disappears and he looks away, staring at Kit (who’s licking her butt), like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sorry. I don’t know where that came from. Let me get you some pants.”  
Yes. Pants. Pants are good, because Bitty did not sign up to be flirted with by Kent Parson. Then, Bitty also didn’t sign up to be stranded in Vegas with no cell phone, laptop, or wallet. And really, if things had been… different, maybe getting hit on by Kent Parson wouldn’t really be weird and inappropriate. But Bitty’s a good guy. A decent adult. Bitty doesn’t revenge-fuck. At least, he hasn’t yet.

Nope. That’s totally not something he wants to visit right now.

“Pants,” Parson says, coming back into the room. “And I’ve got a spare room for you and your… lack of things. Why didn’t you pack? Or did the airline lose your luggage? Here, let me help you.”

“I didn’t think I’d be gone so long that I needed to pack a change of clothes other than underwear,” Bitty admits as Parson helps him down the hall. “I wasn’t even supposed to be in Seattle for more than eighteen hours.”

“That’s a long way to fly for eighteen hours,” Parson observes. “Voila, your very own bed,” he says, flinging open the door and hauling Bitty inside.

“Yeah, well.” Bitty can’t think of what to say. Parson’s hands felt good. Not like Shitty’s snuggles, which were fewer and farther between than they had been at Samwell. And those had usually been reserved for Ja- other people. “Seattle’s a long way from Boston,” he finishes, echoing Parson’s words lamely.

Parson’s hands aren’t on him now that Bitty’s on the bed. Bitty feels the loss.

“You want me to tuck you in?” Parson offers, then pulls the covers off and around Bitty. “Or was that weird and inappropriate, too?” He sits down on the bed, his hand on Bitty’s covered leg.

“I think distance helps us see… things better sometimes,” Parson says. “And yeah, sometimes it feels like running away, or abandoning people or, uh, things, but that doesn’t mean we don’t care about them or wish we’d done things differently. Sometimes distance helps you get a handle on, like, you, and who you are, and… stuff,” he finishes, turning his wrist in a circle.

Bitty scrubs his hand over his face.

“When did you become all mature and pulled together?” he asks. “Like, Shitty’s never been that, _wise_.”

Parson sighs.

“Yeah, well, I still do dumb shit,” he says. “And shit like that’s easier to say than to do. Just ask my therapist. She’s been giving me that speech for years. I’m getting better at hearing it, like, really _hearing_ it.” He pats Bitty’s knee through the covers and moves to leave.  
“Parson,” Bitty says. “Wait.” He sits up. “Come here.”

“Bittle, this isn’t… I’m not,” Parson says, but he walks over to Bitty anyway.

Bitty holds out his arms and Parson sighs, stepping into them. The moment stretches, Bitty sighs and feels something inside him settle, relax. Parson’s fingers move gently against the back of his neck.

“I just really had a bad day, ok?” he says, burrowing into Parson’s embrace.

“Yeah,” Parson replies. “We all get those. Even in Australia.”

**Author's Note:**

> Check, Please! is Ngozi’s creation, I’m playing around, clearly!
> 
> The title and concept of this story is from Judith Viorst’s profound work “Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day”.
> 
> None of the first aid performed in this fic should be tried at home. 
> 
> First dip of the toe into the fandom. Thanks to Drinkingcocoa for letting me scream for a bit!


End file.
